Number9dream

by David Mitchell

  “But I left you in the Venerable Bus!” exclaimed Goatwriter.

  “We travel anywhere you go,” explained the bureau.

  “And since when did you learn to speak?”

  “Since you learned to unblock your ears, you impertinent creature!” answered Sei Shonagon’s brush. “Don’t mind her,” reassured the writing bureau, “she inherited her attitude from her illustrious mistress, but she will serve you well. Now. Shall we make a start? Mrs. Comb and Pithecanthropus will be along in a little while.” Goatwriter sat down and looked through the previous chapter headings. “The All-Consuming Hunger Witch Shrouds the Study of Tales.” Goatwriter sat at the writing bureau with a fresh sheet of paper, and for a moment the page is perfect.

  six

  Kaiten

  I found the Righa Royal Hotel immediately, which left over an hour to kill in Harajuku. Dreamy shopgirls cleaned boutique windows in the morning cool, and florists hosed down sidewalks. I read magazines in 7-Eleven, keeping a nervous eye on the clock, until it was time to report to the Amadeus Tea Room. It is a wedding-cake world with pasteled, fluted walls with tasteful little floral displays on every carefully spaced table. Aunt Yen would award it her highest decoration: “Rapturous!” I want to spray-paint its creamy carpets, milky walls, and buttery upholstery. I poke the ice in my water. My grandfather is due here in fifteen minutes. Grandfather. The word will acquire a new meaning for me. Weird, how words slip meanings on and off. Until last week, grandfather meant the man in the grainy photo on my grandmother’s family altar. “The sea took him off” was all she ever told us about her long-dead husband. Yakushima folklore remembers him as a thief and a boozer who disappeared off the end of the harbor quay one windy night, which explains a lot about my grandmother’s attitudes to men in general. Amadeus Tea Room is posh enough to support a butler. He stands behind a sort of pedestal at the pearly gates, examines the reservations book, lords it over the waitresses, and pedals his fingers. Do butlers go to butler school? How much are they paid? I practice pedaling my fingers, and at that very moment the butler looks straight at me. I drop my hands and look out the window, acutely embarrassed. At neighboring tables prosperous housewives discuss the secrets of their trade. Businessmen peruse spreadsheets and tap sparrow-size laptop keyboards. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart looks down from his ceiling fresco, surrounded by margarine cherubs blasting trumpets. He looks puffy and pasty—little wonder he died young. I badly want to smoke one of my Clarks. Mozart has a great view through the panoramic window. Tokyo Tower, PanOpticon, Yoyogi Park—where the dirty old men hang out with telephoto lenses. On a soaring chrome block a giant crane builds a scale model of itself. Water tanks, antennas, rooftops. The weather is stained brown today. A silver teaspoon is struck against a bone china teacup—no, it is the carriage clock on the mantelpiece announcing the arrival of ten o’clock. Butler bows, and guides an elderly man this way.

  Him!

  My grandfather looks at me—I stand up, flustered, suddenly under-rehearsed—and he gives me that “Yes, it is me” look you get when you turn up for an appointment with a stranger. I cannot say he looks like me, but I cannot say there is no resemblance either. My grandfather walks with a cane, wears a navy cotton suit and a bootlace tie with a clasp. Butler zips ahead and prepares a chair. My grandfather purses his lips. His skin is sickly gray and mottled, and he fails to hide how much effort walking costs him. “Eiji Miyake, one presumes?” I give a serious eight-eighths bow, searching for the right thing to say. My grandfather gives an amused one-eighth. “Mr. Miyake, I must inform you at the outset that I am not your grandfather.”

  I unbow. “Oh.”

  Butler withdraws, and the stranger sits down, leaving me marooned on my feet. “But, I am here at your grandfather’s behest to discuss matters pertinent to the Tsukiyama family. Be seated, boy.” He watches my every motion—his eyebrows are sunken, but the eyes inside are laser-guided. “The name is Raizo. Your grandfather and I go back many decades. I know about you, Miyake. In fact, it was I who brought your advertisement in the personals column to my friend’s attention. As you are aware, your grandfather has been convalescent, in the wake of major heart surgery. His doctors’ original forecasts were overly optimistic, and, regrettably, he is obliged to remain in the hospital for another three days. Hence I am here, in his stead. Questions?”

  “Well . . . can I visit him?”

  Mr. Raizo shakes his head. “Your stepmother is helping to nurse him in the ward, and—how can I express this?”

  “She thinks I am a leech who wants to suck money from the Tsukiyamas.”

  “Precisely. Just for the record: is that your intention?”

  “No, Mr. Raizo. All I want is to meet my father.” If I insist on this often enough, will people finally begin to believe me?

  Mr. Raizo is giving nothing away. “Your grandfather believes that secrecy is the wisest strategy to belay your stepmother’s misgivings, at this point. Young lady!” Mr. Raizo crooks his finger at a passing waitress. “One of my giant cognacs, if you please. Your poison, Miyake?”

  “Uh, green tea, please.”

  The waitress gives me a well-trained smile. “We have eighteen varieties—”

  “Oh, just bring the boy a pot of tea, dammit!”

  The waitress bows, her smile undented. “Yes, Admiral.”

  Admiral? How many of those are there? “Admiral Raizo?”

  “All that was long before you were born. ‘Mr.’ is fine.”

  “Mr. Raizo. Do you actually know my father?”

  “Blunt questions earn blunt answers. Well. I make no secret of the fact that I despise the man. I have assiduously avoided his company for nine years, since the day I learned he sold the Tsukiyama sword.”

  “A sword?”

  “It had been in his—your—family for over five centuries, Miyake. Five hundred years! The snub that your father dealt five centuries of Tsukiyamas—not to mention the Tsukiyamas yet to be born—is immeasurable. Immeasurable! Your grandfather, Takara Tsukiyama, is a man who believes in bloodlines. Your father is a man who believes in joint stock ventures in Formosa. Do you know where the Tsukiyama sword presently resides?” The admiral rasps. “It resides in the board-room of a pesticide factory in Nebraska! What do you think of that, Miyake?”

  “It seems a shame, Mr. Raizo, but—”

  “It is a crime, Miyake! Your father is a man devoid of honor! When he separated from your mother he would happily have cut her adrift without a thought for her future! It was your grandfather who ensured her financial survival.” This is news to me. “There are codes of honor, even when dealing with concubines. Flesh and blood have meaning, Miyake! Bloodlines are the stuff of life, of identity. Knowing where you are from is a requisite of self-knowledge.” The waitress arrives with a silver tray, and places our drinks on lace place mats.

  “I agree that bloodlines are important, Mr. Raizo. This is why I am here.”

  The admiral sniffs his cognac moodily. I sip my soapy tea. “Y’know, Miyake, my doctors told me to lay off this stuff. But I meet more geriatric sailors than I do geriatric doctors.” He drains half the glass in a single gulp, tips his head back, and savors every molecule. “Your half-sisters are dead losses, of course. A pair of screeching vulgarities, at some no-name college for half-wits. They rise at eleven o’clock in the morning. They wear white lipstick, astronaut boots, cowboy hats, Ukrainian peasant scarfs. They dye their hair the color of effluence. It is your grandfather’s hope that his grandson—you—have principles loftier than those espoused in the latest pop hit.”

  “Mr. Raizo—forgive me if—I mean, I hope my grandfather doesn’t see me as any kind of, uh, future heir. When I say I have no intention of muscling my way into the Tsukiyama family tree, I mean it. I hope my grandfather will see that.”

  Mr. Raizo rumbles. “Who—meant—what—where—when—why— whose . . . Look, your grandfather wants you to read this.” He places a package on the table, wrapped in black cloth. “A loan, not a gi
ft. This journal is his most treasured possession. Guard it with your life, literally if necessary, and bring it when you rendezvous with your grandfather seven days from now. Here. Same time—ten hundred hours—same table. Questions?”

  “We’ve never met—is it wise to trust me with something so—”

  “Brazen folly, I say. Make a copy, I told the stubborn fool. Don’t entrust some boy you’ve never even met with the original. But he insisted. A copy would dilute its soul, its uniqueness. His words, not mine.”

  “I, uh”—I look at the black package—“I am honored.”

  “Indeed you are. Your father has never read these pages. He would probably auction them to the highest bidder, on his ‘Inter Net.’ ”

  “Mr. Raizo: could you tell me what my grandfather wants?”

  “Another blunt question.” The admiral downs the rest of his cognac. The jewel in his tie-clasp glimmers ocean-abyss blue. “I will tell you this. Growing old is an unwinnable campaign. During this war we witness the ugliest metamorphoses. Faith becomes cynical transactions between liars. Sacrifices turn out to be needless excesses. In a single generation, we saw enemy squadrons become tourist coachloads. You ask what your grandfather wants? I shall tell you. He wants what you want. No more, no less.”

  A coven of wives blowholes wild laughter.

  “Uh, which is?”

  Admiral Raizo stands. Butler is already here with his cane. “Meaning.”

  August 1, 1944

  Morning, cloudy. Afternoon, light rain. I am on the train from Nagasaki. My journey to Tokuyama in Yamaguchi Prefecture will take several more hours, and I will not reach Otsushima, the island of my destination, until tomorrow morning. Over the last weekend, Takara, I was torn between two promises. One promise was to you: to tell you every detail about my training in the Imperial Navy. My second promise was to my country and the Emperor: to keep every detail regarding my special-attack-forces training an absolute secret. The purpose of this journal is to resolve my dilemma. These words are for you. My silence is for the Emperor.

  By the time you read these words, Mother will have already received a telegram informing you of my death and posthumous promotion. Perhaps you, Mother, and Yaeko are in mourning. Perhaps you wonder what my death means. Perhaps you regret you have no ash, no bones, to place in our family tomb. This journal is my solace, my meaning, and my body. The sea is a fine tomb. Do not mourn immoderately.

  Let me begin. The war situation is deteriorating rapidly. The Emperor’s forces have suffered severe losses in the Solomon Islands. The Americans are set to invade the Philippines with the clear aim of possessing the Ryukyu chain. To prevent the destruction of the home islands extraordinary measures are called for. This is why the Imperial Navy has authorized the kaiten program.

  A kaiten is a modified mark-93 torpedo: the finest torpedo in the world, with a cockpit for a pilot. A kaiten can be steered, aligned, and rammed into an enemy vessel below the waterline. Destruction of the target is a theoretical certainty. You are fond of technical data, Takara, so here goes. A kaiten measures 14.75 meters in length. It is propelled by a 550 hp engine, and fueled by liquid oxygen, which leaves no wake of air bubbles on the surface, thereby allowing an invisible strike. A kaiten can cruise at 56 kph for 25 minutes, thus outpacing capital target vessels. A kaiten is tipped with a 1.55-ton TNT warhead that detonates on impact. Four kaitens will be mounted on I-class submarines. The submarines will sortie to within strike range of enemy anchorages, where the kaitens will be released. This new, deadly weapon will not only reverse the recent losses in the Great East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere, but will dismay and decimate the American navy.

  From the naval air bases at Nara and Tsuchiura, 1,375 volunteers offered their lives for the kaiten program. Only 160 passed the stringent selection procedures. You can see, my brother, how the Tsukiyama name shall be honored and remembered.

  August 2

  Hazy morning; a hot, cloudless afternoon. I awoke with other kaiten trainees in cells at the military police barracks in Tokuyama—regular billets were destroyed in bombing raids last month. A bomb struck the fuel depot, and in the ensuing destruction the port and large districts of the town were razed. From this wreckage a launch took us to Otsushima. The short voyage takes only thirty minutes, but the contrast could not be more complete. Otsushima is a body and head of peaceful wooded hills, terraced with rice fields. The kaiten base and torpedo works lie on the low-lying “neck” of the island.

  Sub. Lt. Hiroshi Kuroki and Ens. Sekio Nishina, the two co-inventors of the kaiten, paid us the inestimable honor of meeting our launch. These men are living legends, Takara. Initially, Naval High Command was reluctant to sanction the use of special attack forces, and rejected the kaiten proposals submitted by Sub. Lt. Kuroki and Ens. Nishina. To convince High Command of their utmost sincerity, they resubmitted their proposals, written in the ink of their own blood. For all this, they are cheerful, unassuming fellows. They showed us to our quarters, joking about the “Otsushima Hotel.” They led the technical briefings that took up the rest of the day, and postponed the tour of the base until tomorrow.

  August 3

  Conditions, windy. Sea, choppy. The perimeter fence of the kaiten base encloses an area of approximately six baseball grounds, and accommodates between 500 and 600 men. Security is tight—even the islanders are unaware of the true purpose of the Otsushima installation. The base includes a barracks, refectory, three torpedo factories, a machine shop to convert the mark-93 torpedoes to kaitens, an exercise yard, a ceremony square, administrative buildings, and the harbor. From the machine shop, a narrow-gauge railway enters a tunnel blasted through 400 meters of rock to the kaiten launch pier, where training began tonight. I jankenned with Takashi Higuchi, a classmate from Nara, for the privilege of the first kaiten run co-piloted with Sub. Lt. Kuroki. His stone beat my scissors! I must not be overly disappointed. My turn will come tomorrow.

  August 4

  Sultry, humid, hot weather. Tragedy has struck so soon. Last night, Sub. Lt. Kuroki and Lt. Higuchi failed to return from their run around the northern body of Otsushima. Frogmen spent the night searching for their kaiten. It was finally found shortly after dawn, a mere 300 meters from the launch pier, embedded in the sea-floor silt, sixteen hours after launching. Although kaitens have two escape hatches, these may only be opened above water. Underwater, the water pressure clamps them closed. A kaiten contains enough air for about ten hours—with two pilots, this time was halved. They ensured their sacrifices were not in vain by writing 2,000 kana of technical data and observations, pertinent to the fatal malfunction. When their paper was used up, they scratched words on the cockpit wall with a screwdriver. We just returned from their cremation ceremony. Ens. Nishina has sworn to carry the ashes of Kuroki aboard his kaiten when he meets his glory. The atmosphere on the base is one of mourning, obviously, but tempered with a determination that the lives of our brothers shall not be lost in vain. My own heart was burdened with guilt. I begged a private audience with Commandant Ujina and told him about how I felt a special responsibility to Higuchi’s soul. Cmdt. Ujina promised to consider my request that I be included in the first sortie of kaiten attacks.

  August 9

  Weather extremely hot. Forgive the long silence, Takara. Training has swung into full gear, and finding even ten minutes to sit down with my journal during the day has been impossible. At night, I am asleep as my head touches my pillow. I have wonderful news. During the morning roll call, the names for the first wave of kaiten attacks were announced and Tsukiyama was among them! Kikusui is our unit emblem. This is the floating chrysanthemum crest of Masashige Kusunoki, champion of Emperor Godaigo. Kusunoki’s 700 warriors withstood an onslaught of 35,000 Ashikaga traitors at the Battle of Minatogawa, and only after sustaining eleven terrible wounds did he commit seppuku with his brother, Masasue. We are the 700. Our devotion to our beloved Emperor is ultimate.

  Four fleet subs will each transport four kaitens. I-47, captained by the Lt.
Cdr. Zenji Orita, will carry Ens. Nishina, Sato, and Watanabe, and Lt. Fukuda. I-36 will carry Lt. Yoshimoto and Ens. Toyozumi, Imanishi, and Kudo. Aboard I-37 will be Lt. Kamibeppu and Murakami, and Ens. Utsunomiya and Kondo. I-333, captained by Cpt. Yokota, will transport Lt. Abe and Goto, and Ens. Kusakabe and Tsukiyama Subaru. After the announcement we were re-allocated dorms, so members of the same sortie can sleep in the same room. We in I-333 are on the second floor, at the end, overlooking the rice terraces. At night the croaking of frogs drowns out the foundries and I recall my old room in Nagasaki, which is yours, now.

  August 12

  Weather, cool and calm. Sea as smooth as Nakajima River, where we sailed our model yachts. Today I will write about our training. After breakfast we divide into Chrysanthemums and Drys. Because there are only six kaitens available for training, we are given priority practice privileges. At 0830 we proceed through the tunnel to the kaiten pier. After boarding, a crane lowers us into the sea. Usually we sail two to a cockpit. Of course, we have no room, but this doubling-up helps to save fuel, and “a drop of gasoline is as precious as a drop of blood.” Our instructor knocks on the hull, and we knock back to show we are ready to embark. First we run through a series of descents. Then we solve a navigation problem, using a stopwatch and gyrocompass. We locate a target ship, and simulate a hit by passing under the bow. One must be careful not to clip the upper hatch on the keel—two kaiten pilots died in Base P this way. We also dread being stuck in silt, like Cdr. Lt. Kuroki and Lt. Higuchi. (It is hoped their posthumous promotions will comfort their grieving families.) If this misfortune occurs, one is supposed to blast compressed air into the warhead (filled with seawater rather than TNT), which should, in principle, buoy the kaiten to the surface. None of us is eager to test this flotation theory. What we dread most, however, is surviving the loss of a training kaiten. This occurred to a hapless cadet from Yokohama five days ago. He was dismissed, and his name is never mentioned. After returning to the pier or the base harbor, depending on our course, we attend briefing sessions to share our observations with the Drys. After the worst of the afternoon heat is over, we practice sumo wrestling, kendo fencing, athletics. Kaiten pilots must be in prime physical condition. Remember our father’s words, Takara: the body is the outermost layer of the mind.